


The Summer's Out of Reach

by FreshBrains



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer will pass, the seasons will change, but Stiles looks perfect in any light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Summer's Out of Reach

Every time Derek looks at Stiles, he sees a new person. 

Not in the abstract way of not knowing someone, not seeing the true person beneath a carefully-crafted façade, but in the real true way of change—the way the light hits his jaw, the way his hair looks at different hours of the day and at different levels of sexual and emotional disarray, the way his wardrobe fades and shrinks as the days get longer and hotter.

One day Derek looks at Stiles and realizes he’s never seen him in the hot sunlight, freckles strewn across his nose, the tender pink of sunburn flashing across his skinny shoulders.

He very quickly decides that Stiles in the summer is his favorite Stiles yet.

*

Lydia claims Stiles as her daytime summer companion—she subscribes to the “air conditioning and iced tea” theory of summer, in which she doesn't expose her long pale legs to the sun or allow sweat to drip down her collarbones. Derek can’t understand it—fake air instead of the cool breeze flowing off the lake, carpet and ceiling fans instead of grass and the speckled shade of a tall tree—it makes him feel trapped just thinking about it.

Stiles spends two weeks with Lydia indoors, watching Netflix and drinking fruity, sugary cocktails Lydia invents on the fly from whatever her parents have in the booze cupboard, and when he surfaces from the drawn shades, he has Lydia in tow.

“We’re going to beach,” he yells up to Derek’s loft through cupped hands, even though his cell phone is in the back pocket of his faded cargo shorts. He has a towel tossed over his shoulder and when Derek looks down at him, his gangly boy, he gives him a crooked sun-blinded smile beneath the brim of a ratty baseball cap. “Get your butt down here, you’re buying me a King Cone on the way.”

As he makes his way down the stairs, Derek strips off his shirt, looks down at his denim shorts cut off at the knee, and shrugs. He hasn't owned a bathing suit in years; the shorts will do. Before he even gets outside, he hears Lydia grumble, “If I get burned, your ass is grass, Stilinski.”

Derek greets Stiles with a half-hug and kiss to the top of his head. “Glad to see you out here among the living.”

“You’re one to talk,” Stiles retorts, slinging his arm around Derek’s waist. His skin is already warm and Derek wants to lick him everywhere, taste the sun on his flesh. 

The beach is packed every day, but it’s worth it—Derek would fend off annoying children and seaweed and sharp seashells just to watch Stiles come out of the water, hair dripping and hipbones peeking out of his shorts.

They fuck in the Jeep in the tiny lakeside parking lot once, while Stiles is still damp and sandy, his bare feet pressed to the windows, as if there couldn't be a more obvious display of what they were doing.

“God, what’s gotten into you?” He gasps as Derek grips his hips and thrusts harder, burying his face in Stiles’ warm neck.

“You looked so _good_ out there,” Derek groans, and Stiles laughs.

“I knew you’d like the beach bum look, you’re so predicta- _ah_!” Stiles digs his nails into Derek’s shoulders as Derek pulls him up into his lap, hot and firm and perfect.

There’s sand in the Jeep until October.

*

Stiles comes by the loft every day, and if he decides to be a lazy bum and sleep until two in the afternoon, Derek picks him up. Those are the best days, even though Derek wonders how anyone can sleep after sunrise.

Derek used to love sleeping with Stiles in the winter, curling up with half a dozen blankets and wrapping his arms around him until he stopped shivering. Humans could get so cold so easily, and Derek hated it—Stiles needed to be warm all the time, warm and in his arms. But propped up in the open window, Derek could look at Stiles asleep on top of the duvet, clad only in boxers and a sheen of sweat at the small of his back, all afternoon.

But Stiles always knew when he was there, and he’d open one eye and smile. “What’s up, creeper wolf? Coming to kiss your sleeping beauty awake?”

Derek rolled his eyes but complied, slipping inside and plastering himself against Stiles, licking at the damp skin behind his ear, tasting salt and teenage boy and sleep. Sometimes Stiles would tease him, squirming around beneath Derek, sliding his hands into Derek’s back pockets until Derek growls and pins him to the mattress.

There’s something perverse about it; having Stiles like that when he’s fresh from sleep, needing a shower and a shave, sweat cooling at the dips of his collarbones and the hollows of his knees. He looks down at Stiles, the sunlight seeping through the blinds and casting stripes across his naked body, and he’s instantly hard, yanking open his fly with one hand.

The worst thing is that he doesn't want Stiles to shower after it—he wants him sticky and covered in his scent all day, even though he knows it will be washed away in the lake or the sprinklers anyways.

Stiles wrinkles his nose, pressing a kiss to Derek’s cheek and he limps naked to the shower. “You little territorial bastard,” he chides playfully, but Derek growls anyways.

The heat makes it more intense; the need to make Stiles his. Scent is more intense in the heat, and Stiles radiates the smells of summer—grass, oranges, suntan lotion—and Derek worries that someone else will snatch him up and bury their face in his neck.

Summer is a dangerous and wonderful season for werewolves.

*

“Any wolves up there?” Stiles asks one night, head pillowed on Derek’s bicep as they lay on an old quilt outside the old Hale house. He points lazily up at the stars, as if Derek couldn't guess what he was referring to.

The night is perfect, pitch dark and velvety, the moon barely a sliver of light, letting the stars shine around it. It’s a peaceful moon; there’s no tension in Derek’s chest.

“A few,” Derek says, squinting to find them in the jumble of crystals. Laura was the stargazer—she tried to get him interested, but he left the mythology to her. “There’s canis major, but he’s not a wolf. Minor is hanging around somewhere. The two dogs.” Derek lifts his hand to join Stiles’, moving Stiles fingers to trace patterns in the darkness. “And Lupus, the wolf, is right over there.”

Stiles is quiet for a second. “You’re totally bullshitting me, aren't you?”

Derek tries to muffle a laugh, but Stiles swats him on the chest. “I’m serious! I want to learn about this stuff,” he insists, but Derek can tell he’s trying not to laugh as well.

“Well, I know they’re up there somewhere. We’ll figure it out one day.” Derek pulls Stiles closer, and Stiles runs a hand absently across Derek’s pecs, playing with the buttons on his Henley. 

“We might not get a night as perfect as this,” Stiles says softly, and Derek leans down to kiss him.

The crickets chirp, the dragonflies buzz, the bushes rustle with nocturnal creatures on the hunt, and then there is kissing, and kissing, and kissing.

*

Derek dreads the start of autumn. Stiles will go back to school, be around people his own age, and Derek will go back to wondering who will come around and hurt his pack next, who will threaten the only family he has.

He and Stiles sit on the steps of Scott’s front porch in late August, knees on elbows, watching Scott and Isaac throw a football around on the lawn. Allison and Lydia sit beneath a tree to the left—Allison is mending her bow, sending threatening little glances at Derek that he merrily returns with much gusto, and Lydia is playing with her dog, the yappy little thing that always barks at Stiles.

“What are you thinking?” Stiles asks, nudging him with his elbow. 

“I’ll miss summer,” Derek says with a sigh. He looks over at Stiles, and the sun is setting salmon-pink on the horizon, the kind of sunset that heralds golden trees and chilly nights in a matter of weeks, and Stiles looks peaceful and sweet and beautiful.

“Me too,” Stiles says, lacing his fingers through Derek’s. “It’s been a good one, hasn't it?”

Derek nods, and he just smiles and leans in for a kiss, probably their thousandth of the season.

Summer will pass. Stiles changes with the seasons, gets more contemplative, more curious, a little harder—Derek remembers how it feels to mature in levels and become an adult all at once, the realization like a flash of cold water.

Summer will pass, the seasons will change, but Stiles looks perfect in any light.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Don Henley's "Boys of Summer," statistically proven by science to be the greatest song ever written. Hope you guys enjoy a little seasonal fluff. I had doubts about giving it an E rating, especially since I hate clicking on an E rated fic and getting very little...well, E. To me, if penetrative sex is heavily implied, it gets an E rating. Alas, I'd be open to suggestions of tag/rating changes.
> 
>  _Update 12/22/13_ : After going through and cleaning up my fics, I've officially re-rated this one as "M" rather than "E."


End file.
